#178 OR riddikulus

When the first Harry Potter book came out, I was twelve. A year later, I would run away from home. Between thirteen and seventeen I was shuffled between foster homes and institutes and had long periods of being homeless, or squatting. I didn't have a lot of things, I didn't have a lot of money, often I didn't even have enough to eat. In fact I can still remember the contents of the horrible old duffle bag that I carried everywhere with me; one pair of jeans, one sweater, one t-shirt, sleeping bag, pocket knife, notebook stuffed with photos, my grandfather's watch, and, by the time I replaced the bag in 2004 – five extremely worn out novels. Paperback. I read them so often that they disintegrated. When I replaced them, I forked out for the hardback copies which have weathered my affections rather better. I read those books endlessly. In the rain, in the cold, by candlelight, by torchlight, under the covers, in my sleeping bag, in school, hiding in public bathrooms, on park benches.

I grew up with Harry Potter, in a lot of ways I spent more time in the wizarding world than I ever did in the real world. Those books taught me a lot of things and will never really leave me. Which, to someone that doesn't quite get it because they're a children's series and I'm a grown man now, makes absolutely no sense. But there are good lessons in there, important lessons. Without those books, I would be a very different man. Because it's that imaginary world which taught me about love and friendships which go far beyond family and doing what's right instead of what's easy.

Perhaps most of all the books are, to me, a way of coping with loss. They get called a children's series, and perhaps the first three are, but the rest of the series is a veritable bloodbath. No other children's story wipes out so many of its characters. And yet you carry on, because the ones who love us never really leave us. And because there's really nothing to fear in death.

My wife was a Harry Potter nut. The majority of my generation is, actually. I expect the midnight showing will be packed with adults, rather than children, and I anticipate a lot of crying. I watched every film with her, the last three at the midnight showing, with her wearing the same nerdy t-shirt. She refused to read the last book for months, almost a year she held out without reading any spoilers, without even lifting the cover, because she didn't want it to be over. Needless to say, when we moved to Thailand we took six books with us, just six. And those are the copies I've been re-reading over the last fortnight; frequently dotted with splashes of ginger tea or a flattened mosquito, bookmarked with Khmer newspaper clippings and with her scratchy pencilled notes in the margin. Inside the cover of the Deathly Hallows she's written today's date in stark, excited pencil and surrounded it with a countdown of the months. She arranged my annual summer vacation around the release of this movie and warned me that she would be seeing it often, maybe daily for a week or so.

I've thought a lot about this movie, and what it means. It's the end of a saga I've been wrapped up in since I was thirteen. Half my life has been tied up in these novels, these movies. J K Rowling said at the premiere last week that Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home. Which sounds a little trite, a little unbelievable if you're not a bit of a Harry Potter nerd. It's true though, because the things we love never really leave us.

And because I loved her and she loved this series, and because she'll never really leave me, I'll be wearing her shirt tonight, to the midnight showing. And trying not to cry for a variety of reasons.